The Creative Process: Questions
 

As we are here in the "creative process" section, I wondered about is, after all, a philosophical question: whatis the creative process, howdoes it work, how do each of you actually begin to create some piece (a poem, for example). I personally am ruminating all the time, maybe even unconsciously. I am working out words, phrases - that kind of thing. What about "writers' block"? It all just 'comes' to me.: maybe that's what they mean by being visited by the "Muse". Just wondered . . . maybe someone out there could come back with some ideas?

The strangest things can inspire you. Your feelings, a flower by the road side, etc. Though I found that sometimes the best ideas seem to come around midnight, as you are trying to fall asleep - LOL.

I find that I have to write even if what I write is nothing worthy or good... Just to express any and all feelings to get them out and on paper and off my mind... but others times I am just over come with inspiration and almost become manic in the creative process and the words and images just spill all over and I have to go and go non stop until the work is just right . I am like that when I try to paint I wont stop untill the work is done. kinda weird I know but I am an odd one anyhow so thats normal for me lol.
I enjoy your work and glad you are playing tag it is fun once you get the hang of it.:hug:
nice to meet you and hope to see your work up in here more and more John.
PEACE BMW

Look at this poem/story. I saw it long ago & remember it
http://www.lovethissite.com/crackedpot/

The music is by Neil Young...who had polio as a boy and has epilepsy.

I thought of it when I read FinLady's post.

Re: Thank you all!
 

So many thanks to Finlady, Burntmarshmallow, and lor for your responses! Yes, I did read the "cracked pot" story, what a way to remind us we all have our idiosyncracies, but of benefit to everyone. Must put some more poems of mine on here: will do that today. I love you all.

The Wild Moors
 

THE WILD MOORS
Too many times I wandered
the wild moors
alone,
too many times I tempted
the weather
and survived dry;
too many times I heard Voices
and panicked,
wind in my face,
eating my bald head,
now I am content - at least for now.
Too many times I struggled
uphill,
too many times I was scared
of my Voice,
now I am in control
while the rain lashes my soul,
now I am content – at least this hour.
Too many times I gave way
to the Voice,
too many times I didn’t understand,
now I am master of the Voice
while the clouds gather
ominously,
now I am content – at least this trek.
Too many times I heard
the souls who got lost here,
too many times souls got lost
in the mist,
too many times a haunting Voice
whispered,
but I am content – at least on this rest.
Too many times I’ve trekked
this slushy path,
too many times I’ve watched
as it came to dusk,
the curlew distant far,
not many times a screaming Voice was
conquered,
but I am content: now I am in control.
I am content on the wild moor
as the clouds disperse once more,
these days I talk to my Voice
as one
not like the days of yore.
Now I am content:
dark on the moor
but bright in my soul.
With the wind on my back
and a song on my lips
I come off the wild moor
at last;
I have faced down my Voice
with the wind as a friend
now I am content:
it’s passed.